“Lukin told me that King Faltil’s crown is buried here,” he remarked, not turning around. He held up another scrap of glass to the sunlight, this time striping the floor with blue.
Athaya felt her muscles tense as her eyes flickered to the flagstone beneath which the crown was buried, not ten yards from where Durek stood. The dried mud sealing it in place was slightly darker than the rest; someone who knew what to look for would have little trouble picking out the right stone.
“One of his prisoners told him where it was,” Durek continued with seeming idleness. “Or confessed it under torture, more like. A friend of the boy who stole it.”
“I won’t return it, Durek,” Athaya said guardedly. “I can’t. Not yet.”
Durek let out a brittle wisp of laughter. “I didn’t think you would.” He did not mention the crown again.
In the silence that followed, Gilda slipped into the quiet chapel with two mugs of frothy beer, leaving them, she departed with a courteous, if uneasy, curtsy to her king. Athaya brought Durek his mug and then settled into the first pew. Although the day’s heat was subsiding as evening approached, the stone still felt cool and refreshing against her back. Durek did not join her, but lingered at the altar, strangely unwilling to leave it.
“What am I going to tell them?’ he asked, sipping absently at his mug. For a moment, Athaya wasn’t certain if he were referring to the people in the clearing or the myriad ghosts of long-dead wizards, waiting to judge him when he finally came to answer for his deeds.
Athaya wasn’t sure if he meant to ask the question aloud, but she ventured a reply. “Just tell them the truth, Durek. Tell them what’s in your heart. They can’t ask any more of you than that.”
“They can ask for my head on a platter and you damned well know it!” he snapped, his composure splintering under the onerous weight of the task before him. He drained half of his beer in a single, frenzied gulp. “You’re probably enjoying every minute of this, too. Seeing me here, without defenses, and about to make an utter fool of myself.”
Once, such a remark might have instigated a vicious quarrel, but here in this place, Athaya knew it was only fear that made him speak so and let the insult pass. “Durek, you’re not being foolish at all. It took great courage for you to come here today. In fact, I can’t think of a time when I’ve respected you more than I do right now. And that’s God’s own truth, Durek. I swear it.”
His mouth jerked open, ready to accuse her of not knowing the first thing about God’s own truth or any other kind, but then it snapped closed just as quickly. He gave her a peculiar look just then, knowing she had to be lying but at the same time certain that she wasn’t. He set his mug down, grunted something unintelligible, and then stepped away from the altar. Outside, the bright glare of day was slowly fading into the muted colors of twilight and the hum of voices was growing louder as the Lorngeld gathered to hear their king. He could delay no longer.
“I may as well get this over with.”
Nodding silently, Athaya led him to the campfire near the derelict bell tower; there was no need to ring it, as every single member of her following was already assembled. She hopped up onto a tree stump so that everyone could see her, then offered a few words of greeting, professing her happiness at being ‘home’ again. Then, stepping down, she offered the platform to Durek, apologizing that they could offer nothing more dignified.
“Dignity is the least of my problems right now,” he mumbled, awkwardly shifting cloak, sleeves, and other regal trappings aside as he clambered onto the stump. Despite his jitters, he almost laughed at the picture he presented—a bejeweled king balancing himself on a rotted tree stump in the middle of the woods—and vagrant smiles of empathy appeared on the faces of many in attendance.
Even before he began, Athaya could tell how difficult this was for him. Like a wizard facing the Tribunal, Durek stood before the victims of his policies with only words to aid him. And devoid of magic in a place where nearly all possessed it, he would be powerless to save himself should his words not have the hoped-for effect. He was afraid, but only those who knew him intimately could discern it. His fingers curled and uncurled in steady rhythm, the ruby signet ring catching the firelight with each anxious movement.
“I thank you for permitting me to come here,” Durek began, sweeping his gaze over every face before him. “It shows greater charity than perhaps I would have offered, given reverse circumstances.”
His audience was silent. Waiting. Listening. Judging him. Unlike the Tribunal, their verdict was not preordained. “My father devoted his life to uniting a long-divided kingdom. He brought together disparate provinces plagued by civil war for centuries.” As Durek briefly summarized the brilliant series of campaigns that led to Kelwyn’s victory, Athaya noted that he never broached the subject of their father’s adopted magic, hoping to avoid adding that volatile agent to the mix of his speech. It would not serve his purpose here to be led into confessing how adamantly opposed to such an act he had been, even as a young boy of eight.
“Caithe has been thus united for only a short time and now the Sage of Sare has come to divide us again. I say that we should not let this happen, but should do everything in our power to repel him; to stand as one against him.”
He reminded them of the Sage’s frighteningly rapid sweep from Eriston to Kilfarnan, of the ruin and death brought down upon all those who refused to join him, and of the reports that hundreds of the Sage’s men were even now gathering near Kaiburn, readying an attack. “My soldiers can fight those in the Sage’s army who have no magic—he has swayed many to his side, either by telling them they will develop the power later or by reminding them that they will share in the future rewards of a Lorngeld brother, sister, husband, or wife. But my soldiers can do little against wizards—especially those among the Sage’s men who can turn aside the influences of a corbal crystal. But you have the ability to fight them!” he said, jitters all but forgotten in the passion of his speech. “And it is in you that Caithe’s only hope rests.”
Ranulf got to his feet and regarded Durek coolly. “So now you need our help, and suddenly we’re not the Devil’s Children anymore, is that it?” Several heads bobbed behind him at the question, wishing they’d had the gumption to ask it.
“I won’t lie to you and say I’ve completely changed my mind,” Durek admitted. “I was taught certain things about the purpose and origin of the powers that you possess, and I simply can’t dismiss those beliefs overnight. But there are wizards at my court who are eager to explain their views to me and perhaps one day I can resolve my feelings on the subject. But none of us have time to wait for that day,” he urged, sweeping his gaze from Ranulf to the others gathered in the clearing. “In the same way Athaya and I have set aside our differences for the greater good, I ask that you do the same. Only together can we drive this intruder from our land. After that danger is past, we can try to resolve our disputes to everyone’s satisfaction.”
After a moment’s thought, Ranulf sat back down on his blanket, seemingly appeased.
“I won’t order you to help me,” Durek concluded. “But I beseech you all to lend your unique talents to the defense of this city—and to Caithe itself—for the good of us all.”
In the ensuing silence, Athaya gazed up at him with a pride that she had not felt since she was a child, easily awed by all the wondrous things that an older brother could do. She looked upon his face—the meager beard, the thinning hair, the slouching eyes—and for the first time, noticed how he was growing to resemble Kelwyn as the years wore on. And, slowly, growing to be like him in other ways. At last.
The clearing was unusually quiet as Durek clumsily climbed down from the tree stump. Before he could shrink away, Athaya enclosed him in a warm embrace. He drew back, visibly puzzled. This was no ritual kiss of friendship done to please their audience, but affection straight from her heart.
“I don’t think Father himself ever made a finer speech;” she whispered, so quiet tha
t no one else could hear.
Somehow, coming from her, he knew it for the deep compliment it was; embarrassed, he simply cleared his throat and said nothing, his hands worrying at a sudden wrinkle in his surcoat.
As the Lorngeld in the clearing began to whisper among themselves and disperse to their tents, Master Tonia came forward and offered Durek a cup of crimson-colored wine.
“We’d be honored if you would stay and share our supper with us, your Majesty. It’s simple fare, but we’re not such bad cooks as all that.”
Durek balked as he took the cup, flustered by the woman’s sincerity. His first instinct was to decline, yet Athaya watched him struggle with himself, unable to voice the words.
“Why not?” Athaya whispered in his ear. “We’re far better company than your guardsmen—especially if Ranulf gets drunk and starts singing.”
Tonia winced and rolled her eyes in mock-anguish. “Lord help us.”
Despite lingering feelings of awkwardness, the thought of staying for a meal was oddly appealing. Durek offered a slight bow to Tonia. “The honor would be mine.”
Honored or no, Durek stayed close to Athaya’s side as they waited for the rabbits to finish roasting—and a pair of deer, though his Majesty made no comment on poaching game from the king’s forest. Guardedly at first, he accepted the greetings of those who ventured forward to address him. Among them, Gilda brought her son to meet the king—a boy, Athaya quietly remarked to Durek, that would never have been born had Gilda been absolved. Girard offered cautious respects as well, not bothering to hide the hand whose fingers had been severed by a Justice’s blade or the story behind his injury. Durek accepted the tales with growing solemnity, each an added weight upon a conscience already disturbed by the forest chapel and the ghosts he knew still tarried there.
“Do you think they believed me?” he asked Athaya later, as they went to the spits to claim their share of meat. “What some of them have been through… it’s a wonder they let me come here at all.”
Athaya didn’t argue the point. She didn’t tell him so, but she was almost as surprised as Durek that her people had shown such benevolence “Well, they’re not all as mulish as I am.” Then, more seriously, she added, “You’re their king, Durek. And you were honest with them—no false promises or professed changes of heart. Frankly, I think it’s more than they expected. They may surprise you with their loyalty.”
Durek was able to relax even further as the evening wore on; he reclined near the bell tower with a second helping of venison, enjoying the informal supper in spite of himself. As Athaya prophesied, Ranulf had indeed begun to sing, and she even caught Durek’s lips moving along silently in time to a bawdy drinking song she had no idea he knew.
It was an hour before midnight when Tonia came up behind them with a grave expression on her face. “Jaren’s opened a panel to you in the chapel,” she whispered to Athaya, not wishing to disturb the others’ revels. “I’d think you’d better come quickly. Both of you.”
Durek followed at her heels as Athaya made her way across the clearing, deftly dodging tent stakes and strings of laundry. The silvery panel stood just before the altar, framing Jaren neatly within it like a life-sized portrait. Instantly, she knew the pallor on his face was not the result of his recent fever. He was calling from the king’s council hall, and behind him, almost out of the panel’s range, Athaya glimpsed Master Hedric and Captain Parr engaged in openly hostile conversation. Hedric pointed urgently toward the panel; Parr, refusing to look, sniffed with disdain and stalked away.
A handful of other men huddled in the rear of the chamber, all of them sharing the same deeply troubled expression. Athaya fumbled at her purse, cursing as she frantically searched for the proper ward key. It was extremely rare for the council to still be in session so late; the news must be grave indeed.
Finally, she found the proper key and applied it to the panel’s frame to complete the link, opening her side with a lightning-flash of white. “I’m here, Jaren. What’s the matter?”
At the sound of her voice, the king’s councillors turned toward the panel in unison, eyes wide and pleading like a flock of frightened children. “Majesty, we are undone!” one cried, seeing Durek’s image in the panel just behind Athaya. “This is terrible. Terrible!”
“You’ve got to leave Kaiburn now,” Jaren told her, ignoring the clucking councillors behind him.
Athaya felt her supper churn unpleasantly inside her belly. “Why? Is the Sage ready to attack?”
“No, Athaya. He already has. Kaiburn was just a ruse; the Sage’s entire army just launched a massive assault on Delfarham. They haven’t reached the castle yet, but we can see the fires from here.”
Durek tensed beside her. “But hundreds of his men were seen near here just yesterday,” he protested, “at Leaforth. The sheriff saw them…”
“Did he?” Jaren countered. “Or did he only see an illusion? A decoy? Mason himself proved how easy it is—he used the same trick to get out of Kilfarnan. And remember what he said about using mirrors? Chances are good that the ‘hundreds’ of men your sheriff saw were only a dozen wizards casting decoys. Mason is furious with himself for not seeing through the ploy—”
“It’s not his fault,” Athaya said quickly. “Hell, none of us saw through it either.”
Jaren nodded wearily, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand; he looked exhausted already and the battle was barely under way. “None of that matters now. We need your help, Athaya—and the help of every wizard you can bring with you, if it’s not already too late. The council and the Guard are in an uproar—orders or no, Parr refuses to do what Hedric tells him, much less listen to a word I say. Mason and his contingent are out in the city doing what they can, but their efforts will only slow the Sarians down. At this rate, it won’t be long before the Sage reaches the castle itself.”
Durek slammed a fist against the back of a pew in frustration, heedless of the pain. “Even if we rode without stopping, it would take almost two full days to get back to Delfarham!”
“Not for all of us,” Athaya replied, a knowing glimmer in her eyes. “I can’t very well bring an entire army with me,” she resumed into the panel, “but I can come back right now and do what I can. Maybe…” Her words trailed off for a moment as she pieced together a plan. “Find out where Kale is keeping that pouch,” she said vaguely, careful not to mention the corbals specifically. Not only was it best that only a very few people know of her newfound ability to channel power through the corbals, but she seriously doubted the extent of the council’s loyalty to her. If one of them were taken during the assault, they might blurt out her most valued secret in an effort to buy back their freedom. Even worse, the inconstant Captain Parr might decide for himself that this heretofore-unknown ability made her a worse enemy than the Sage could ever be and, ally or no, deliberately betray her. The last thing any of them needed was for the Sage to learn of her only trump card and discover a way to counter it.
“Bring the pouch to the council hall. Maybe I can use it to whip up a spell the Sage hasn’t seen before—or any of us, for that matter. It might surprise him into retreating long enough for reinforcements to arrive from the camp.”
Jaren didn’t bother to hide his opinion of the plan. “Athaya, that’s damned dangerous and you know it. Hedric said it could kill you.”
“Only if no one’s there to cover them up if I can’t stop my spells. That’ll be your job. Now, are we going to stand here arguing about it or do we give it a try? I haven’t got any better ideas and you said yourself that we don’t have much time.”
Jaren’s mouth formed a firm line of disapproval, but he didn’t debate the matter for long. “All right. Just hurry. And send as many wizards as you can.”
He closed the panel abruptly, leaving behind only a doorway of smoky mist. When Athaya touched on her ward key to shut down her side as well, the silvery oblong vanished. Then she took Durek’s arm and hustled him down the leaf-strewn aisle. “I’m s
orry I have to desert you like this, but I’ll have someone guide you back to your men—”
“No,” he said, wresting his arm away and rooting his feet to the flagstones. “I’m going back with you.” Durek didn’t even pause to consider what he was asking: to travel by ways that few wizards ever see, much less other men. He only knew that he had to get home.
Athaya stared at him, aghast. “Don’t be a fool—the Sage would like nothing more than to capture you and parade you through the city in chains as his prisoner. Like it or not, this camp is probably the safest place for you. And besides, we need magicians for this battle, Durek. You can’t help.”
“Damned if I can’t! You heard what he said.” Durek jabbed a finger at the spot where Jaren’s panel had stood. “The guard and council won’t listen to wizards—we both need to be there to hold this alliance together. And I have to let the people know I haven’t deserted them!” He cut off her next word with a sharp gesture. “Athaya, I have the greatest obligation of anyone to be in Delfarham right now. I won’t launch into another speech about family duty… but don’t you see?” He set both hands upon her shoulders, holding her firm. “I’m not speaking to you as your brother, but as your king. I command you to take me back to Delfarham. Now.”
Athaya almost refused. But it only took an instant to realize that her refusal would be an irreparable betrayal of trust; a betrayal that would shatter the fragile trust upon which their alliance was built. She had sworn to obey him, and obey him she must.
Durek waited for her answer, likewise aware that her answer would prove her commitment—or lack of it. He let out a thin sigh of relief when she offered him a reluctant nod. “Then come along,” she said, “there’s no time to lose.”
They had only gotten as far as the threshold when Athaya skidded to a stop and clutched her forehead; yet another complication had reared its ugly head. “Wait—what are your guardsmen going to think when you vanish from here without a trace?”
The Wizard King Page 24